


Somnolence

by yezikill



Category: League of Legends
Genre: Camping, Established Relationship, F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22752799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yezikill/pseuds/yezikill
Summary: Winter is a time of stillness.
Relationships: Rakan/Xayah (League of Legends)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Somnolence

**Author's Note:**

> Yo ok so this is my first ever fic on here and my first ever piece of writing in Years! I hope y'all enjoy it i wrote this as sleep deprivation rattles my body after a week of nothing but exams. Cheers!!

A wind brushes against the bleakness of the landscape, carrying in its wake flurries of white. Nothing on the horizon stirs but for the harshness of raven plumes a short distance away from him. Their crunch against the knee-deep snow is deafening, but he doesn’t worry. Everything in winter moves slowly, if they ever move at all. A thrum is bellying underneath the landscape: the steady rise and fall of a body indulging itself the sluggishness of the season. Inviting. When Rakan comes back to himself he realizes Xayah is a bit further out from him, a hunched figure against the cold. 

She pauses, and her ears point this way and that. Rakan mimics to try and find the sound she searches for. 

He closes the distance between them breezily, as he does. His hand drops to brush against hers, and she glances up to look at him. She sends a message down the link between their souls, "It is nothing." It suffices; his trust in her judgement has never failed, never wavered. Xayah has led them through every battle, every fight, and every escape, and they've always come out at the other end of no worse for wear.

When he takes her hand, it feels ice cold, and he frowns. Rakan reaches up another hand to brush off the snow that has gathered atop her ears, her head. "You'll get sick this way, miella," he croons, looking down at her eyes. Defiant, blazing sapphires. But they are also tired, the skin underneath them purple and sinking. "There is another day," he offers, running his thumb against the back of her hand.

Xayah turns away from him and towards the horizon and then beyond it. To their goal. The chieftain they need to meet with. They are already so close. What if something happens? Only she will be to blame for their laxity. Xayah has only ever known peace in fleeting moments spent with her mate, and while lovely, she cannot allow herself too much in the way of personal luxuries. Not while wrought metal and flame threaten the very essence of her people. There is always work to be done.

When she closes her eyes, they feel lead-heavy. Opening them and keeping them that way is a growing struggle as the day wears on, and oh—spirits bless him, Rakan has only gone so far and so long through the snow because of her. Not even having enough magic to turn their feathers into more weather-appropriate colors. The strong warmth of his hand against hers is a comfort, at least, and she is glad for it. Staying still like this, while she makes a decision, allows her body to complain: a spine weary from the weight of her feather-cloak and furs, damp from the snow, and feet becoming colder and colder still, begging for the wrapping around them be shed and replaced. Winter worming its way into her bones. She squeezes her eyes shut.

His offer is reassuring. 

Finally, she turns back towards him, looking up. A squeeze of Rakan's hand is the only assent he needs. He beams, absolutely delighted, looking as if he won.

His hand never leaves hers as they trudge through the snow. There's a tree-line they could take shelter behind, but traversing the distance saps them out of their energy. By the time they've reached a good spot, the sky is bruised. Between the two of them, only Rakan has enough energy to set up their shelter for the night. But Xayah can run on fumes and then some. It takes a celestial force to be able to stop her, and Rakan admires her for it.

Rakan unpacks swiftly, loosening the ties on their backpack. He clears a perimeter for a tent, and then starts setting it up with the sureness of deft hands, while Xayah retrieves a cookpot from her pack and gathers freshly fallen snow in it, before squeezing the last contents of their waterskin into it. She sets it aside and stomps out a pit for their fire. Rakan checks the integrity of his structure. He seems pleased with it, by the way he stands with arms akimbo. A nod and a dusting of his hands, he lifts both of their packs and places them inside. Unravelling their bedrolls and covering the tent-floor is easy enough, though it lacks a touch of warmth. Rakan takes out a lantern from his pack and heads back outside.

Xayah is hunched over the fire, waiting for the snow to melt. Her hands are stretched towards the flames. He sets down the lantern in the snow and crouches beside her. "You can go inside now, love. I can take it from here," he says, but a grunt tells him she isn't going to relent. He touches the knuckles of his hand against the curve of her face tattoo. "You've done so much, and I am grateful. Let me do this for you."

It is too easy to lean into his touch. Xayah gives him a nod, rising from her position. Rakan smiles again, and then reaches for the lantern, but she is quicker. She lights it and heads inside their tent, bringing it aglow. 

In his chest, he could feel the warmth bleeding. 

There's still some time for the water to boil, and the cold is starting to bite, so Rakan follows her shortly. Inside, Xayah has removed her fur coat and is in the middle of taking off her leg wrappings. Her hands move slower than his; a knee bent close to her chest with her chin perched atop it, eyes staring at her work but not seeing. Ah, she is thinking. A question prods at their soul-link, and he finds an easy answer with his eyes. Their food still sits untouched. Rakan clucks and starts going about preparing a plate to share between them—a smattering of berries, jerky, and waybread wrapped in leaves. He sets the plate gingerly beside Xayah.

"Rakan, the water's boiling," she says, her ears pointed towards the mouth of the tent.

He hums, acknowledging. He fetches ginger root and lemon from their food storage before scooting over to Xayah. "Mind taking care of these for me?" he asks, and to which Xayah nods. Rakan rises, pressing a kiss to her hair as he does so, and then goes out to fetch the cookpot. 

Once back inside, Rakan sets down the cookpot before rummaging through his pack. "Uh, Xayah? Remember where we put away the cheesecloth?" he asks.

"I remember putting it away among my things. Maybe you can look there."

"Thanks, honey!"

Indeed, he finds it where she tells him it might be. "Found it!" he exclaims as she moves over to him with the ginger root and lemon peeled and thinly sliced. He accepts them and places them in the cheesecloth, before submerging it in the pot. 

Xayah quickly stops him short with a hand soft atop on his. 

"Wait." 

She takes out their washcloth and wets it, careful not to waste a single drop. Once she's done, she gestures for him to continue. Rakan leaves the tea to brew, clucking his tongue in his mouth. 

"Will you tell me a story?" she asks. Xayah kneels in front of him, handing him a washcloth. Rakan thinks it's for him, but she places the washcloth in her hands upon his cheek. His heart skips a beat, but he's grateful for her kindness. 

"Of course, miella," he responds. Rakan pauses, and he picks one from an earlier time, long before the fathers of their tribe elders came to existence. A simpler time. He closes his eyes so that he might better remember. The warmth is enveloping as Xayah washes his face, his neck, his chest, and then his arms. His own overcoat is discarded, neatly beside hers to dry. When the heat of her gesture leaves his skin, he knows it's his turn to reciprocate. He opens his eyes to see Xayah unbuttoning her belt, and he helps her out of her tunic and chest wraps. 

He doesn't pause in his tale-telling, running the cloth over Xayah's face. The hum rumbling from her throat makes him smile, and once he's finished, they exchange cloths to clean the lower half of their body on their own. He finishes his story just as he finishes taking off his leg wraps.

"That's how it ends?" 

"Mmn." He reaches a hand out for the cloth, and Xayah gives it. There's a sizable portion of their tent interior reserved for drying clothes: their overcoats are too heavy for the clothesline hanging through the tent, so both of them are on the floor on the farthest side from their bedrolls. He hangs the washcloths and then goes to pour out the tea into two cups. 

Xayah comes to sit beside him with the plate in her hands. She places a berry into his mouth. "Will the rations last?" 

"They should! If they don't, I think ice fishing is easy enough to learn." He laughs, taking a piece of jerky for himself. 

She huffs, but there is a small smile on her features. The rest of the dinner is passed in silence punctuated by a joke or question there, and then after a quick clean up, it was time for bed. Rakan can feel the weariness now, that thrum making its way into his core. 

Xayah takes his hand and leads them to their bed. They lie facing each other, skin against skin. He can feel her short breaths grace his chest, and she could feel a great span of his hand on her lower back. Rakan tucks the blankets tight around them for warmth, and the music swells right as he slips into sleep.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, though unsurprised. Xayah turns fitful in sleep, tossing and turning this way and that, mumbling words lost to him. It is the only time she’s ever absolutely vulnerable. Rakan hugs her closer to him to still her, but she rouses slightly.

“Why’re you still here?” She mumbles, and though she speaks intelligibly (albeit barely), it’s clear to Rakan that his mate is still very much asleep. This conversation has happened before, too, and for all of Xayah’s strategic genius, she is sometimes juvenile about love. 

He chuckles, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “Always, miella.”

“How long?”

“For as long as you want me,” he says sweetly. “And maybe even if you don’t, I’ll still chase you around. You weren’t so fond of me early on, you know.”

“Mmn… that’s what you think.” 

“Shh, miella. There’s still a long way till the sun rises.” He tucks her hair behind her ear, and she cuddles closer, placing her cheek on his chest. They stay like that, two bodies intertwined, until the sun crests far over the horizon. Steady with the rise and fall of their breath

After all, everything in winter moves slowly, if they ever move at all.


End file.
